A Pound of Flesh
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: Once upon a time, his only bad habit had been he rarely rose from his bed before nine in the morning, and, even when he did, he was vastly unpleasant to be around. Then Afghanistan came and changed quite a lot.


_**A Pound of Flesh**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating:** Strong PG-13 for implied violence, gambling, a bad word and because I felt a bit squick when writing it.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Sherlock Holmes_. If I did, this wouldn't be under fanfiction.

**Characters:** Holmes, Watson

**Warnings:** Deals with difficult topics, bad Shakespeare references, movie-book hybrid universe and non-descriptive nudity

**Note: **This is in response to strainconductor's request for a fic where Watson gambles and Holmes saves him. Initially, it was meant to be heroic but then it got quite morbid on me and now it's… well… downright dark in some ways. Sensitive subject matter here, folks, in some ways, as a warning.

* * *

Once upon a time, his only bad habit had been he rarely rose from his bed before nine in the morning and, even when he did, he was vastly unpleasant to be around. Now and again, with his mates, he would play a few hands, testing his luck with his bare minimum spending money and laughing at those who overreached and lost the clothes off their back. His easy going manner made it difficult for him to form truly bad habits and, as such, he never considered that he would have a true addiction to anything. Yes, he tried a few drugs, he consumed too much alcohol and he may have cursed, lied and cheated; but nothing stuck to him longer than a few days and most of it could be fixed with an apology. His mates even referred to him as "the knight" because he was a little too chivalrous, too good, too easy to get along with.

Then Afghanistan came and changed quite a lot for him.

He returned to his homeland hollow only to find a greater emptiness waiting for him. Like any man struck down by horrific experiences, he felt the urge to prove that things were the same, that he was the same, that what had tarnished so many so badly had not ruined his shining pure armor. He intended on going out and presenting that he was still John, the one who would cover the tab, the one who would respect a lady no matter what her profession or status, the one who drank a little, played a little but never overstepped his boundaries or limitations.

But it wasn't possible to do any of those things. The weather and air confined him to the hotel and the pain in his arm and leg prevented him from calling upon anyone on even the fairest of days. Few people he knew dwelled in the area and were able to come sit with him in his rooms as he tried to regain balance and stamina so he spent days alone, either sleeping or wishing he could sleep. While he took a bit of joy in reading, he found it unfulfilling to do all day in light of his school-time experiences. The only other thing left to him was to hobble down to the tiny round tables near the lobby of the hotel and people watch from behind his paper.

The monotony may had killed him if he had not found the gamblers his third friendless week. A sudden spark lit up in him as he sat down with them and threw in his meager amounts of money, sipping on a watery scotch and chatting amicably about women, horses and work. He lost dreadfully that night and had to pay up two days pension before he bowed out and went to bed; but it was the best spent money since his forced retirement and he returned as soon as he could to the brightness of other people's lives.

Some people told him later, in the secrets of his practice, that the issue for them was being so close to making the extra money. Just one more bet and they could retire. Just one more bet and they could make up what they lost. Just one more bet and they could leave with their clothes still on their back. He usually smiled at them and agreed that, oh, yes, that was quite difficult; except, for him, it was utter lies. He had never felt that impulse to gamble because he might win a bit more, he might make it back; not initially, anyway, and it certainly wasn't his drive even now. No, he gambled because it made him feel normal; it was a man's game, a game that he could do unlike rugby or aggressive drinking or flirting with pretty women.

But the problem became his lack of talent in this particular area. He found himself with smaller and smaller funds, owing more and more people, losing more and more possessions to cover his debt; it became so bad that he had to move from the hotel into shared quarters with one Mr. Sherlock Holmes at 221B. The moment he set foot in those rooms with his few meager belongings, he swore that it was over. He now had company—although a bit abrasive at times—and he had no need to seek out other social interaction. Besides, the walk to his old quarters would be painful and difficult so the cards could not steal him. He hadn't the foggiest idea where else to go for such pleasures which led him to think that stopping would be simple.

The next clear day, he found that gambling happened on the streets, in the pub down the road, outside of church and in the park. He came home without his fine gold chain for his watch and without his top hat, his wallet devoid of anything and his leg trembling under the strain of walking. A cab had been out of the question.

Upon taking a seat in his chair, he discovered his companion, looking rather unkempt and wild, watching him with a glittering eye. It was obvious that he'd been experimenting with some sort of drug again. "What did they look like?" he asked, flipping through a worn chemistry textbook.

"Pardon?"

"The men," Holmes clarified, in a tone that signaled he was a fool and should know exactly what Holmes meant.

"What men?"

"The ones who mugged you and stole your watch chain, hat and money," Holmes said, folding down the corner of his page and snapping the book shut.

"I wasn't mugged," he said, frowning. And then he recalled his resolution and felt a queer, unhappiness in his gut.

"Then where have they gotten to?" Holmes inquired. "And why did you walk all the way home? Your leg is trembling so badly I can feel it over here."

Providence saved him by allowing Mrs. Hudson to enter with evening tea and he buried himself into it with more eagerness than he felt. The uneasiness in his belly filled him better than pie and he retired early with the excuse that he felt ill. That month, he just managed to afford rent and swore, once and for all, that he did not need to do this anymore, that he had, with his growing strength, to find newer things to do. But the following month, he had to, cheeks burning, ask his new companion to cover part of the rent. A brief winning spell allowed him to pay Holmes back the very next day and kept him out of debt for nearly a week but it did not break the cycle.

He was an addict. He just did not want to admit it.

His level of sneakiness grew as his roommate became suspicious of him. If he lost a personal item which he'd gone out with, he made sure to take an unnecessary trip to his room before sitting at his desk. Anything observed by the far too keen detective, he dismissed with a number of lies and excuses. It became easier and easier to fib about what happened, about why he wore the same clothing, about why he never had extra money to go with Holmes to concerts, or to dinner, or to pay the rent. And he justified it by saying that Holmes had plenty of horrible habits and that he was allowed to have one simple one. Holmes drank some of the medications he kept in his medical bag, tended to do things to the dog that were vastly inappropriate, had no verifiable social skills and often came to odds with anyone who he deemed—but were not necessarily—unintelligent.

He just needed better company, he decided, but he never made it to those planned lunches or to the meet ups at pubs because he got distracted along the way and doesn't have the money to pay for gatherings with old friends. It reached a point where he feared the outdoors lest he have to borrow money for rent again or be asked those strange questions; for a week, he managed to sequester himself to the house, feigning exhaustion. However, during that time, the urge to be free made it difficult for him to think of anything beyond the dice just down the road or the horse track that was a fifteen minute walk. His restless fidgeting irritated Holmes which in turn irritated Mrs. Hudson which in turn irritated Gladstone and the house becomes a powder keg.

When he emerged on Monday, he practically ran to the card table; he couldn't really blame himself for it. Anyone would after that experience.

But it led to him being here, now, with his hands tied in front of him and his clothes gone, feeling like an utter fool and praying for providence to intervene on his behalf just one last time. He doesn't think that God is listening, though, as another minute passes and the man near him continues to sharpen his knife. His stomach lurches against the screeching, not the possible future in store for him. He hates the grating noise of metal on stone, the way it cuts his eardrums and sends shudders up his spine. Below it, he can hear the laughing and cheering of the crowds in the fight ring and wishes he could melt away into them.

"Well, sir," it's the man he's lost to three times this night alone, "Gerald here's about done with his knife. You got anything to say? Anyone you wants us to call on to give you a hand?"

He thinks of Holmes, probably at home, probably encouraging Gladstone to pee on the rug by the door or finding a new way to get rid of rats. How easy it would be to say the words "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street" and let Gerald prance off to get him. He doesn't doubt that Holmes would come to his aid; Holmes has already proven to be strangely dependable when it comes to his financial woes. However, his pride will not allow for it. Having Holmes come means he truly has a problem. He'll let a man slice out a pound of flesh any day.

"I'll take that as a no," the man decides. "We have a policy here and it's gotta be upheld or there won't be no respect, see? You can't pay the bill with money, you pay with flesh. Think Shakespeare said somethin' bout it."

"Merchant of Venice," he helps. "A pound of flesh."

"Right you are," the man's to his left in the dark. "We can't take a pound though. Would bloody kill you. Just enough that you learn not to bet more than you can pay, right, Gerald?"

Gerald nods and inspects the knife. It's glittering in the dim light, shiny from the whetstone and he can tell it'll easily strip layers from him. He sets his jaw, preparing for the worst.

"We'll take it from your back so you won't have to show it off," the man says, as though it makes a difference. Once the blood soaks through his shirt, everyone will know just the same. "Gerald's real good at it by now. Shouldn't take too long then you can go out and home to your missus."

The knife comes closer, he can see it from the corner of his eye, and he braces himself for its bite against his flesh. Will they cut deep or shallow? Will they take strips or chunks? How much do they plan or how little? Will they let him have his clothes back after it's done with or will he be forced to stumble about in the nude until some poor constable finds him and takes him away? Will he even be able to walk in the end? He doesn't know, even with his surgeon's intuition; he's seen men crawl for miles with horrendous injuries, claiming that they had someone to live for. He doesn't have one of those.

"'Ey, Kingsley," it's the boy who caught him trying to sneak out, "that crazy fighter's in. You says you—"

"I know what I said, boy," Kingsley interrupts, not harshly. He probably would like someone like Kingsley under different circumstances. "We'll finish this in a mo, sir. Gerald, watch him."

Gerald does watch him, not taking his eyes off for as second which he finds disconcerting, so he focuses on the outside noises and sounds. In the distance, he hears Kingsley laughing, boisterous, friendly, and the person he meets saying something in a low, familiar rumble. They walk down the hall together, their voices becoming clearer as they approach, and he hopes whoever this person is will not enter this room. He can only take so much in a day.

"You came just in time, guv," Kingsley says. "Just about to reclaim what's ours. Man tried to dip out on his bill."

"Ah," the other says. "And you'll have your usual cutting way with him?"

"Do we have any other?"

"Not any I've seen of you."

"He's a real gentleman, too, this one. Ain't cursed once or whined or complained; just accepted fate. If I didn't hate him for stealing, I'd like him for being a tough bastard." There's a pause. "You want to watch, guv?"

"I think I'll have my fill violence in the ring, Kingsley."

"Aw, guv, you never watch it. Who knows, you might get a taste for it."

"Again, Kingsley, the ring is enough. A large crowd tonight, I see."

"And filled with a good many who haven't seen you fight."

"You'll make a pretty penny then, sir."

"As always."

They get to the doorway of the room and he catches their shadows in his peripheral vision. Kingsley stands next to an average sized man, who is angled in a way that he cannot see his face. His waistcoat seems oddly familiar though.

"Well, guv," Kingsley holds out a hand. "Good luck tonight. I'm assuming you want your usual bet on the match?"

"Why, of course, my dear man," there is no mistaking that voice, that stance, that waistcoat which was in his closet when he left this morning, "how else am I going to pay the rent? My roommate's busily squandering his coin at the dog track, no doubt, and hoping I don't notice how threadbare his clothes have gotten."

"Bet your roommate and my man in there have a number of things in common. Wearing the most worn out shirt I've ever laid eyes on. Holes at the sleeves. Still looked like a right gentleman, though, 'til we stripped him."

Holmes knows. Holmes probably has known for ages but kept silent to preserve him or because he didn't want to address the situation. He grimaces and opens his mouth to call out, to give in, but finds what's left of his pride squashing his voice. He can only make a minor squeaking noise which even Gerald misses.

"Did he have a lovely gold watch on an iron chain as well?" Holmes asks with a bored tone.

"Why, yes, he did, guv," Kingsley has an astounded touch to his voice. "How d'you always guess those sorts of things?"

"Observation, my dear man," Holmes says. "I bet he had a bowler hat and a black military style jacket."

"You spying on me, guv?"

"I have far better things to do, Kingsley. Retired military often fall to bad habits upon return. They think it's a necessity to prove themselves outside the battlefield," Holmes has a tint of disdain in his voice as he says this. "But never mind. I am feeling generous tonight, Kingsley, and I hate the sounds of screaming before I go out. Would you mind letting the poor chap go using my winnings to pay his debt?"

"We can gag him, Mr. Holmes. It don't feel right, using your hard earned money to pay for this bloke's mistakes."

"Trust when I say it'll be far better to lose some coin as opposed to him loosing flesh," Holmes assures. "Do it for me, Kingsley?"

He doesn't speak, doesn't dare, not even when they return his clothing and his watch from his mother and he's on his way. The arena passes by in a blur and he sees Holmes getting whipped about the place by a man twice his size. He cannot get himself to stay though, cannot bear to make contact with his friend so he slips from the place, almost giddy with relief. He only makes it a block before he's forced to sit because the shock of it all has caught up with him.

He must sit there a long time. "Mrs. Hudson will be upset that you aren't home, sir. She thinks you haven't been fed before she came upon you."

His tongue's glued to the roof of his mouth. Holmes doesn't seem to mind and takes a seat next to him. He's split his lip and his eyebrow but looks strangely satiated. "Do you think you can walk the rest of the way?"

He nods even if he's unsure and stands even though he shakes, and together, they traipse the dark London streets towards Baker Street. Neither of them speak—his courage has failed him and Holmes is whistling a jaunty Irish drinking song—so he focuses purely on taking steps and not falling down into a quaking, miserable heap. When they enter their abode, Holmes retreats to his bedroom while he sits up in front of the fire until the morning sun appears and his mind is heavy with unsaid words.

And later, when Holmes is up and breakfast has been served and he's tended to the cuts on Holmes's face, he takes a new approach and hands the man his wallet. There's no need for words now.


End file.
